


Weird, But Refreshing

by TeaForToby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Extremely Underage, F/M, Fisting, Hand Kink, Squirting, Tickling, Underage Drinking, Watersports, dirty - Freeform, dub con/non con, girl!Dean, stranger danger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaForToby/pseuds/TeaForToby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a new bicycle, and she's ready to push her freedom to the max. Her newfound independence leads her to chase unrepentingly after whatever feels good, but she has no way of knowing just how far that pursuit can take her...<br/>Always female Dean is 8 years old here. 'Murican!Crowley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weird, But Refreshing

Dean got a new bicycle for Christmas this year. Shiny blue, with graceful white pinstripes dancing curlicues across the body, bright white handlebars, and jet black pedals with little reflectors on them, and she's obsessed. It's the beginning of July now, and she's been riding around non-stop for as much of every day as she can.

Today she started early, before the sun was up too high, and she actually made it to the next town over. If her daddy finds out, he'll be mad as anything, but if not... Well. So she pedals on determinedly, sweating in the summer sun, flushed and tired and so very proud of herself. There's not much to this town, just like every other one they've been in. There are long stretches of road between clusters of businesses or houses, with large bushes growing up along the sides and rolling hills of long, golden grass that bounce the heat right back up at her. The street shimmers. It's midafternoon, and Dean's been biking continually since morning. She knows she should turn around, but she wants to savor the moment first. Savor her freedom. This is the first time she's really gone somewhere on her own, and it feels fantastic.

Unfortunately, trees are few and far between, and the sun beating down is really wearing her out. Dean's hands stick to the soft white plastic grips. Up ahead is an autobody shop, garage door open and worn welcome sign hanging lopsidedly in the window of the door to the office. Nobody is inside the garage that she can see, though a car is hoisted up in the air, clearly in use. Dean turns off the shoulder of the road, crunching over dirt and grass as she makes a straight shot for that deep shade. Slowing to a stop, she hesitates just outside the garage door, peering towards the office to see if someone is going to kick her out. A generator is running somewhere. Several long seconds pass, and the only movement is the hands on a tired old wall clock. She swings a leg backwards over the seat, grimacing at the stretch in her groin, and walks her bike into the corner of the shop farthest from the office door, leaning it carefully against a stack of tires beside the lifted car.

Now that she's standing up, the strain of the day is hitting her full force. Her legs and back are hurting deeply, her skin is painfully hot, and her bum and crotch are protesting the long hours on that narrow seat. With a sudden pang, she realizes she's also super hungry. Dean automatically grabs at her stomach, bunching the fabric of her Heart t-shirt in her small fists, and bends over at the sharp pain of it. It'll take forever to get back home though, and she can see the sun glancing off the pavement just outside. She groans. Now what?

“Hey, kid,” comes a deep male voice.

Dean starts, turning to see a tall man standing a few feet away. He's wearing a tank top that must once have been white, but which is now brown and gray and black with dirt and grease, except underneath the arms, where it's been stained yellow from sweat. His gray work pants are similarly filthy, streaks of black showing where he habitually wipes his hands clean, knees and seams wearing thin. Though you couldn't really say his hands were clean, either, with grease pushed under the nails and sunk deep into the wrinkles of his skin, which was stained various shades of brown. Dean eyed the right hand as the man brought it up to his mouth to take a deep drag on the butt of a cigarette before flicking in into an old coffee can at his feet.

“Nice ride.”

He strolls over to the car Dean is standing almost directly beneath, and she scoots out of the way quickly, the glow of pride replaced by shy uncertainty. With his foot, he presses a lever on the floor forward.

“Watch your head,” he warns as the car begins to lower to the ground, and Dean takes a couple steps back. As it settles to the ground with a mechanical grind, he raises his foot from the lever, clicks a safety bar into place over it, and walks around the car away from Dean to her bicycle. She can see him over the trunk, scratching at the stubble of a beard and gazing down at it, and she walks over to see too.

“I like them handle brakes you got there, kid. Pretty slick, huh? You manage that, or you pedal back to stop, too?” His voice is scratchy, and not at all condescending, but Dean feels the need to defend her skills. “I can pedal backwards without stopping,” she declares, “and I just biked here from Lodi. I can use the brakes good when I gotta. But mostly I don't gotta.”

That earns her a smile and raised eyebrows. “You a li'l speed demon, huh?” he says, and there's an unmistakeable note of approval in his voice. She swells with pride, chin raising to smile full on at him. “Yup! Always go real fast.” “You musta, to get here from Lodi. This baby must be quick.” He turns the front wheel, watching the rainbows bounce off the reflector in its spokes. But when he takes his hand away, there's a distinctive set of finger marks left in grease on the pretty white grip.

“Hey!” Dean cries sharply, “You messed it up!” She grabs the bike away from him, and he takes a half step back, wide, blackened palms raised in surrender.

“I'm sorry now, I didn't mean to go an' filth up your wheels.”

“It's not the wheels, it's the handlebars,” she sneers.

“You're right, it is the handlebars. And they were so shiny and clean lookin', too. Just like you.”

Dean blushes at that. She certainly doesn't feel clean right now, with her shirt sticking to her back and a wedgie from her short shorts digging into her butt, and a bit into the front too. Her skin is pulsing now with heat, and she can't tell if it's a sunburn or if she's just blushing everywhere.

“Extra shiny right now, too,” he says in a softer voice, lowering his hands. “Sun gotcha pretty good, didn't it?”

“Yeah, there's no trees.” She tries not to make it sound whiny. Only little kids whine.

“You should prob'ly fuel up after a long ride like that, don't'cha think?” He gestures to the door that leads inside. “Get some water in ya, at least. I've got a sandwich too, in the fridge. Won't do any good to stand around hurtin' when you've got a long ride back to think of.”

Dean considers, taking in the peeling white paint and metal blinds.

“No A/C, but there's a fan goin' in there too, if that sweetens the deal any.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He walks ahead, turns the fat steel knob, and leaves the door open behind him. Dean follows a few steps back, pausing to lean her bike against the wall beside the door.

Inside it smells like dust, rubber and grease, made more pungent by the enclosed space, even with the little fan on the desk turning side to side and pushing the air around. It's only one room in here, and not a big one. A couple chairs with curved metal legs and arms sit against the inside of the wall by the door, woven fabric seats and backs faded in roughly people-shaped places. The walls are wood paneled, decorated with framed, legal-looking papers and a poster of a Stingray thumbtacked over the lightswitch. One end of the room is dominated by a desk that's completely covered in stacks of paper. Not that it's a big desk, but the room is so narrow that there's only just room to walk around behind it. The man is bent over, clanging around in a mini-fridge tucked into the corner beside a short file cabinet. The smell of his sweat is becoming apparent in the small room.

“Here ya go, I ate half of it earlier, but... Ahh, you're only a tadpole anyway. You like tuna?” He offers her a bundle of wax-paper that's clearly been re-wrapped. She hesitates only a moment before taking it.  
“Thanks.”

“Mm-hm.”

She backs into the chair closest to the desk, sitting down and swinging her legs in the breeze of the fan and setting the sandwich in her lap. He takes the seat beside her, cracking open a can and taking a long drink from it.

“Is that Coke?”

“Coors.”

“Oh, yeah. Cool.” She unwraps the sandwich, trying to sound casual.

“You like Coors?”

She stares at him, taking a large bite and chewing at him in disbelief. “I'm eight.”

That got a laugh. “Well that didn't answer my question though.” He tips the can towards her, offering. “You like it?”

“I don't know! I've never had it!” Bits of lettuce spray from her mouth. Is he dumb?

He smiles at her, sitting up a little straighter and sipping the beer. His eyebrows raise in a smug expression, and he smacks his lips, settling the can on his knee. “Ahhh. Refreshing.” He belches.

Dean scrunches up her face and smacks his arm with the back of her hand. “You're weird!”

“Weird, but refreshed!” He settles into the chair now, crossing his ankles and closing his eyes. She takes another bite while she mulls it over, then pokes him in the ribs. “Gimme.” Wordlessly, and with eyes still closed, he holds it out for her. Dean wipes her finger on her shorts; his side was sweaty and gross. Then she takes the can and sniffs it. It smells like stale cigarettes.

“Ew, it smells like your breath,” she declares. He bobs his toes and does not answer. She raises the can again, holds her breath, and drinks as much of it as she can in one go. It tastes like bad lemonade. Like old, bad lemonade, but not sweet, and not really lemony either. Just bad. It's even worse on her breath afterwards, and she pants for a moment before taking another large bite of sandwich. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was, and the Coors is still chilly from the fridge. She holds it against her thigh, sliding the can up and back and letting the condensation drip onto her reddened skin.

There was a clock somewhere in here too, because she hears it ticking as they sit in silence and she finishes the sandwich. She's never just sat with a grownup alone like this before, except her dad, and she feels kinda big, like she's getting to see what it's like just hanging out. Her dad's always moving them around, so she never really gets much time in school, and doesn't see much of other kids her age. And even when she does, they were always so dumb. Grownups are way more interesting, but they never pay her much mind. This guy is cool. She raises the can to her lips again, eyeing him in the chair next to her as he reclines, feet kicked out in front, back slouched down, head tipped against the wall. He could be sleeping. She isn't sure. She takes another long drink.

“Where's your garbage?”

He opens one eye halfway and points to the corner on the other side of the door. Dean leans forward to look around him, crunches the empty paper up, and flings it over top of him. It sticks between the can and the wall for a moment before tipping in. The man had turned to watch the throw, and smiles now.

“So, hotshot. What's your name?”

“Dean,” says Dean. “What's yours?”

“Crowley.”

Dean laughs. “Is that your first name?”

“You don't like my name, or what?” Crowley sits up now, grinning and turning in his seat to face her.

“It's weird!”

“Weird, but refreshing!”

Dean laughs even harder. “What? Names aren't refreshing, dummy!”

“My name is! You've never even heard it, that's how fresh it is!”

Dean is helpless now, cackling louder and louder. “Fresh!” she howls. “You're so fresh! Like a vegetable!”

“And you're a little tomato!” Crowley pokes at her cheek, sunburned and now flushed with laughter.

“A f-fresh tomato?” Dean asks, trying to hold it together and ask it like a serious question. He gives her an evaluating look, still smiling. “Hmmm, not the freshest I've seen... Maybe if I...” He leans over, putting a hand under her jaw and turning her head the other way.

“What're you doing?” she giggles.

“Checking for freshness.” He pulls at her ear, flips her hair around, pulls down the back of her shirt collar. “Nope, don't see any here.”

“What!?” she jumps from the chair and whirls to face him. “I'm fresh!”

“I dunno, I looked all over for that freshness, and I didn't see none of it.”

“That's cause you don't know what you're lookin' for! You're so un-fresh!”

He barks in laughter. “Un-fresh?”

“Yeah, like... like gross-fresh! Like you make stuff go all not fresh anymore just by--” She interrupts herself with a gasp. “That's why!”

“What's why? Why what?”

“You killed it! You killed my freshness! You touched me and you killed it!” a look of horror crosses her face. “Eeewwww, you touched me and you took my freshness, nooo!”

“Well if me touching you makes you so un-fresh, howsabout you give me that Coors back before you lose the rest of it? I'm thirsty too, y'know.”

“Hah!” Dean thrusts the can at him without stepping closer. “You can't get it from me! This is my freshness!” And with that, she latches onto the can again, chugging steadily and tipping the can back until it's empty.

“Wow."

She stands there for a moment, stunned by her own actions. She feels warm inside, but also really, really full. Like she might puke. Like she might puke any second. She takes a preparatory breath, and lets out an enormous burp that seems to go on forever. Hey! Now she isn't so full! She grins at Crowley.

He grins right back, standing up to take the empty can from her. “Now you're the freshest thing in here,” he says, cupping her cheek approvingly with a large, rough palm.

“Yeah!” Dean says, self-satisfied.

“Gotta get me some of that freshness-juice. Where you buy it from?”

“Oh, y'know,” Dean walks on her heels to the desk, arms splayed for balance. “Like a local farmer or something.”

“Mmm, what's his name, this farmer?” Crowley walks behind her, hands upturned and hovering just beneath her upper arms, tipping her back upright when she teeters too far.

“Farmer Dell.”

“The farmer in the dell?”

She laughs again. “Nnnoooo!”

“I think you're making it up!” he says accusingly as she reaches the desk and turns around to lean on it.

“I'm not making it up.”

“Mm-hm, you are. You drank my freshness juice.”

“You're not Farmer Dell!” Again, her face becomes serious, little brow creasing as she frowns up at him.

“I'm the supply and the demand around here, and someone's interrupted my supply chain. Now who could that be?” He steps up to her, putting a hand on the desk on either side of her and leaning down into her face.

“Uhhmm...” she trails off, suddenly aware of how big and close he is. Her cheeks are on fire.

“I can only think of one person who's brave enough to drink my freshness right in front of me. One person who's coming to mind right about now. I can actually see it. I can see her face.” He closes his eyes, lifts his head, appears to be thinking. Dean squats down, careful not to brush against him, and lunges under his arm. But he's already spinning, snagging her around the middle. “Yes! I can see her now,” he exclaims, “the little tomato from Lodi!”

“Nooo!” Dean squeals. She thrashes to get away, but overbalances into his side, and at the awkward angle they both fall crashing to the dirty floor.

“Come here, lil tomato plant! C'mere, I wanna pluck a tomato for my lunch!”

They wrestle on the ground, sending dust bunnies and spiders rolling and scurrying for the edges of the room. Crowley grabs an ankle, pretends to examine her foot.

“I've got you now, tomato girl! You face is as guilty as they come!”

“That's not my face, it's my foot!” Dean shrieks, trying to kick out against his strong grip.

“No, no, no, you can't fool me with this mask on.” Crowley tugs at the laces of her shoe, pulling it off and quickly twisting off her sock too. “A-hah! There's the culprit.”

“No, no, mercy!” Dean pleads in a squeaky voice, flexing her toes with the words like a sock puppet speaking.

“There's no mercy here. You must pay for your crimes. Both of you.” And he gathers up her other foot, forcing Dean over onto her belly as he clasps her ankles together and uses them to turn her over.

“But I'm innocent,” she wriggles the second foot.

“That's what they all say,” Crowley intones solemnly. He begins removing that shoe too. “Before they come clean.”

“I'm clean, I'm clean!” Dean flexes both feet, squirming back and forth as the second shoe is removed.

“You know, you are surprisingly clean, for a little hotshot tomato.” Off comes the sock. “Clean little feet. Clean little hands. Clean little face.”

“No, cause I'm sweaty though,” Dean is smiling hesitantly now, not sure where the game is going.

“Clean little sweat.” He smiles down at her where she's twisting up from the floor to watch, and it sends a warm feeling right into her stomach that makes her smile back twice as big.

“Sweat's not clean.”

“Yours is. Look.” He presses his face right up against her foot and inhales deeply. “Ahh, so clean.”

“Ew, no it's not! Don't be gross!”

“Don't tell me what to do,” he counters. “Grossness is how I live.” He gives the bottom of her foot a quick lick.

“Yeah, I know,” she giggles.

“Hey! You're kinda mean.” He frowns, and she immediately feels guilty.

“Sorry. It's just that you're gross.”

Crowley laughs and tickles underneath her toes. “And you're bad at apologizing, too! What am I gonna do with you?”

Dean is shrieking, thrashing, writhing on the ground and trying to curl back towards her feet. “Stop, stop! Mercy!” She manages to flip over onto her butt, and now she can kick harder. She pushes at his bare shoulder, his face, forces his head to turn, and still he's tickling her feet. “Please! Please, stop!” She's laughing so hard her sides hurt, punching with closed fists, scratching, getting tired but still unable to stop thrashing. “Pleeaase!”

He pauses, squeezing her toes, and pulls her up into his lap.

“Please?” he repeats.

She pants heavily, gasping for air and unable to respond. Suddenly dizzy, she sways, and is held in place by those large, blackened hands as they come to rest on her sides. “Please?” he asks again.

“...please...” she pants. “...stop.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, my fresh little cherry. I'll stop, but just this once.”

“M'not fresh,” she mumbles. The lightheadedness is uncomfortable and funny at the same time.

“Oh yeah, you're fresh.” He pushes her sweaty bangs back and tips her head up. “You've been fresh since the moment you walked in.”

She squints at his face, inches away. “What?”

He brushes a thumb across her open lips. “C'mon, Dean. Where's that smart mouth? I wanna hear how weird I am again.”

The warmth that had entered her stomach earlier is spreading now, in her face and in between her legs, like lava. “You're so weird.”

“Yeah? How weird?”

“Like...” One of his hands slides around to her lower back, thumb stroking up and down her spine right above her butt, and she shivers from how good it feels. “Mmm...” she hums. He's stroking her hair with his right hand, brushing away the sweat from her temple with his knuckles and leaving little smears of grime. The stroking on her spine becomes a whole hand movement, up and down her back, and his hand is petting both shoulder blades at once at the top, then down to the top of her shorts, back up again, and she's rocking gently with the movement...

“Is this weird?” Crowley asks quietly. His breath gusts across her eyelids and nose, and she hadn't even realized her eyes were closed.

“Mm-hmm.”

His hand cups the back of her head, bringing their foreheads together and holding her there. She thinks maybe he's rocking too now, her legs wrapped around his waist and her feet behind his back, tipping back and forth and it's almost dizzy, almost.

“Weird how?” he whispers. The smokey smell of his breath is a bit comforting, grounding her. Daddy used to smoke. She reaches up for the collar of his shirt, but it's not there, just the shoulder straps of his tank top, so she grabs those. Chest hair rubs against the backs of her fingers. She tips her face forward more, until their noses touch, breathing in the smell of stale cigarettes, stale sweat, stale beer, stale oil, stale bread... She giggles.

His hand squeezes one of her butt cheeks.

“Weird how, goofball?”

“Mmm, what? Oh.” She tries hard to remember what the question was. “What?”

“How are you feeling, kid?” His hand is rubbing her butt, kneading it, and her crotch is seriously on fire, clenching all up in on itself, and she presses it forward against him. He's so solid and warm and she presses as hard as she can, needs to. “Feel cool.”

“Yeah?” His voice is smiling.

“Mm-hmm, super cool.” She grinds her pelvis into him, pushing up and down, trying to... something. Her hands twist in his shirt. “Like Batman cool.”

“What does Batman cool feel like?” The back of her shirt is hiking up, and his had is rough on the smooth skin of her back. It dips beneath the elastic waistband of her shorts on every downstroke, squeezing the tops of her cheeks firmly but gently. The hand in her hair is now on the back of her neck, rubbing just below her hairline, and they're rocking forward and back still but now it's almost soothing. Like a rocking chair. He is her rocking chair.

“Feels really warm...” She opens her eyes to consider, then pulls her face back, stares intently at him. His eyes are half-closed, but he is watching her. She can see all the little flecks of dirt on his face, see the lines where his sweat cut through the dust. The side of his nose is smudged like he rubbed it. “I have to fight crime,” she vows.

“Do you have a plan for that? How're you gonna fight crime, exactly?” He drops his other hand to her bum too, and now they're holding her like a seat, fingers wrapped towards her front, but they're both in her shorts and his thumb is playing with her panties.

“With my fists!” She grins, holding up both fists in front of her like a boxer. He stops rocking, but she continues to sway.

“I think you should let me figure out the plan then, little Robin, if that's all you've got.”

“What's wrong with fists?”

“Nothin' at all,” and he squeezes reassuringly, “it's just that yours are kinda small.”

“Nuh-uh!” She leans forward emphatically, pushing her forehead against his again and raising up. His hands glide smoothly around behind her thighs as she does so, sliding up to the backs of her knees and bringing her shorts and panties with them. “Hey!”

“They're so tiny!” Crowley grabs one of her hands and kisses it. “Look. Hold still.” He opens his mouth, bringing her fist right up to it and gently closing his teeth around the top and the bottom. Dean stares, mesmerized, not sure what to make of this, as his lips close around her knuckles and thumb and he slowly presses forward onto her hand.

“What're you...?”

She keeps her fingers closed, feels his tongue brush the backs of them. He presses more and more of her fist into his mouth until his lips are sealed around her wrist. Her whole hand is inside his mouth. Dean stares, wide-eyed. His tongue slowly presses against her fingers, licking them. His hands are rubbing up and down her thighs, and it hurts a little, calloused flesh on sunburn. She slowly extends her index finger inside his mouth. The warm, squishy tongue pulls back from the rest of her hand to caress the slim little question, sucking at it in answer. Her eyes flick between his mouth, wrapped firmly around her wrist with just the slightest pressure from his teeth, and his eyes, gazing at her calmly and almost seeming to smile.

He pokes at the sensitive web of skin between her index and middle fingers, and she spasms involuntarily, squeaking out a quick laugh before immediately stilling. His whole head had moved when she twitched like that, and she is afraid of hurting him. His tongue continues to explore, though, and she tentatively begins to uncurl her middle finger as well. His hands stroke up her sides beneath her shirt, rubbing circles into her tummy with his thumbs. Dean feels small, held so easily, and it gives her tingles.

Her panties are in the way of pushing up against him now, though she tries, pale bare feet grasping at his hips and pelvis thrusting forward, looking for something to rock against. She feels his hands rubbing up at her chest now, groping at the muscles and flesh in a way that just makes her rock harder. His skin is radiating heat against hers, into her, throughout her torso. He's sucking on her two fingers, pulling back to halfway on her hand and rubbing his tongue up and back between them.

Dean lowers her other hand to her crotch, where she's so hot, where she needs to press and rub and she does. Fingers together, cupping, she grinds into her hand, but it's not as good somehow. A thumb flicks across her nipple, and she gasps at the sharp, fleeting sensation. He rubs his thumb into it, pressing firmly, massaging the skin and underlying tissue and spreading even more heat in her chest. Flicks again. Dean squeaks, pulling her hand from his mouth, but he latches onto her first two fingers and suckles earnestly. Dean stares, mouth open, and working her hand furiously against her swollen pussy.

Crowley moves his left hand back down her body, just barely brushing her skin along the way and leaving a trail of goosebumps from her chest to her booty. Grasping her firmly, he rocks her forward, and it's almost hard enough to push her up against his belly. Her panties are locking her knees together, pressed up against his chest, and her pussy's just barely an inch from him. The backs of her knuckles graze his greasy shirt and she rubs herself, frantic and inexperienced. She's rubbed herself with pillows or fluffy blankets, but never directly like this, and she doesn't know how to do it.

He sucks her fingers into his mouth, pulls back, bobs forward again. Deliberately not sealing his lips shut, spit starts to accumulate around her knuckles and drips down her palm. A flick at her nipple, and she's gasping.

“Crowley...” she moans. “H-help...”

He pulls off her fingers and licks up the underside of them. Presses her hand forward with his chin and licks again, delving just slightly between them. He leaves off with a little sucking kiss to the tips. Her fingers tremble.

All at once, he's lifting her up by the armpits. He rises from the floor, leaning forward, and lays her down on her back, then lifts up to kneel over her and smile. She's stretched out, lying stunned exactly as he put her. Bare feet on the floor, striped panties stretched between her knees, shirt lifted up around her armpits, mouth open and panting, eyes sleepy and trying to widen at the same time. Right hand rubbing her pelvic mound, up and down, in a poor rhythm while her hips quiver, unsatisfied. Spit-covered hand raised numbly over her.

He leans forward slowly, putting his hands on either side of her shoulders. She moans a little, breathy, arching her chest up and her head back. But she's watching him intently. Her left hand, slick and dripping, tentatively joins its sister, just adding pressure. Crowley is breathing steadily, watching her face, not breaking eye contact. Poised over her on hands and knees, framing her body as she arches up from the floor beneath him.

He shifts his weight, shoulder rolling forward as he pulls her panties down further. She raises her knees and points her toes. Eyes pleading. He smiles, pulls them off, and presses his hand between her knees. Slides up her legs. His fingers stroke the insides of her thighs as he goes, hairless and sweating and so, so soft. Her legs slowly drop to the sides as his hand presses up against the backs of hers, working desperately to rub herself off. He cups them gently, stilling her, and she whines.

“Shhh.”

His fingers press hers away, revealing her puffy lips, swollen and reddened by her efforts, nestled between thighs that go from burned red to sunkissed gold to pale and creamy where they join her torso. She's worked her baby fat off, and is all smooth skin and lean muscle. He takes her wet hand by the wrist, moves up up to her belly, drags her own fingertips slowly up her ribs, past her collarbone, gently across her throat and presses them against her lips, leaving two delicate, shining lines up her body. She opens her mouth, and he presses her fingers in, waits for her to close on them. She does, sucking slightly, and he pets her belly warmly.

With a quiet smile, he lowers his hand once more, cupping her mons as she had, pressing the heel of his palm just above her pubic bone and curling his fingers down between her cheeks to rest against her tiny anus. When she whimpers, he lowers his face to hers.

“Lick,” he says, and with that he licks from the back of her hand up to her upper lip where it is pursed around her fingers. She suckles, confused.

“Lick,” he orders again, and she pulls her fingers partially out of her mouth.

“Yes, just like that. Come on.” He licks again, this time catching the backs of her fingers before reaching her lips. “All of it, come on.”

Dean pulls her fingers the rest of the way out. Crowley kisses the back of her hand, just below her fingers, keeps his face there, waits. Her sex is thrumming against his palm, twitching with need. She kisses her palm just below her fingers. With a little lick on his side, they both slowly drag their tongues up the crevice between her fingers, and as they do so, he strokes upwards from her asshole to the bottom of her lips. She gasps and thrusts, and he stops moving.

“C'mon, baby,” he urges. “Show me. Come on.”

She licks the base of her fingers frantically, and Crowley chuckles, rubbing at her soft little lips at the same pace. They spread open under this onslaught, and soon her pussy is leaking, dripping down her crack.

“It's good up here, too,” Crowley says, voice low, and he licks between her first and second knuckle, rubbing at the fleshy tops of her inner lips as he does so.

“YES,” Dean cries, straining upward.

“And here,” Crowley adds, sucking her fingertips into his mouth again and tonguing them fiercely. He scoots his knees up on either side of her hips for balance as he brings his other hand to her tiny little clit, pulling at the shaft of it and rubbing the hood into its sensitive surface.

“OOOoooohhh..” Dean humps at him, licking at her fingertips, tongue swiping across his bristly upper lip as he suckles.

“That's it sweetheart, now you're getting the hang of it,” he murmurs.

“Uhhmm, it hurts!” Dean wriggles. Crowley's hand had been braced on the floor, and had picked up some debris that is now being rubbed into her clit and pussy lips.

“Yes,” he acknowledges, but makes no move to stop. He licks some more at the middles of her fingers, pressing a pointed tongue through, and rubs a finger against the tiny hole of her urethra.

“UUUHHNNN,” she groans, licking at her side of her hand and catching his tongue occasionally. “More,” she breaths against her fingers.

“Mmm, what more? What do you want?”

She turns her hand around, pressing her fingers into his mouth and surging upwards.

“MORE!! MO-UUHHnn!”

He plunges two fingers into her pussy as she pushes her fingers in his mouth. Falling back, her head is cushioned by his hand before it could hit the linoleum, but she doesn't notice either way. Her thumb, ring, and pinky fingers scrabble at his face, scratching his cheeks and being scratched in turn by the rough hairs there. He gives her a rhythm, bobbing his head until she's pressing methodically into his mouth, fingers curling against his tongue the way his are digging inside her vagina. Groaning deeply, she grinds her heels into his ass, squeezing and pulling him towards her, pushing her fingers roughly into his mouth and clinging to his chin. Her other hand comes up and grabbed onto his shirt, yanking on him while she pushes his head away with the force of her facefucking.

He curls his fingers against the front wall of her vagina, just past the opening, and digs in with rapid pulls until she's screaming. Her pussy tightens around his fingers, clamping down and shaking. Her whole body clenches, curling forward, and she presses four fingers into his mouth, grabbing his jaw from the inside and outside. 

“Dean!” he exclaims through his mouthful. “Ummnnn!” He sucks and bites at her fingers as she tightens up, eyes squeezing closed and liquid pouring out of her. It gushes down his forearm, drips at the elbow, and splashes across his lap and the floor. She stops thrusting in his mouth, just pressing and pressing forward. “UUUHHHM” she groans gutterally, hands clenched around his shirt and mouth, pussy clenched around four fingers that are still stroking, slowly but firmly, inside her. “Mmmnnnoo.... ooohh, stop...” she moans. Her muscles shake with the effort of maintaining the clench, spasming and tightening. More and more and more she tightens, painfully grinding out her pleasure.

Crowley grinds his palm into her clit, pressing it back against her outer lips and massaging them together while his fingers rub inside her relentlessly.

“Dean,” he whispers. “Dean, are you ready? One more peak. Three... two... Look down, Dean. Look at my hand.”

She does, tight and shaking and crying with the intensity of it all, she looks, and his entire hand is inside her now. She sobs aloud, staring at the place where his oil-stained wrist, covered in hair and dust and dirt from the floor, disappears into her shining, stretched, wide-open little pussy. She looks and she sees the clean swaths of his skin where her cum had flowed over it. She sees the vein pulsing in his forearm, the tendons in his wrist tight and fluttering as he strokes inside her, her little pussy lips stretched taut around the intrusion, her tiny clit straining red above him as it grinds along his skin, and she hears her name in the air like a song. His hand twists, and she's more full than is possible, sensation shooting out through her limbs like lightning, and as it reaches her head it clears away every other thought and feeling and just rises up through her, blissful and white and clear.

Crowley holds the eight-year-old's head tenderly, bends forward to kiss at her soft, sweet lips. Her fingers are still caught on his teeth, hand grasping tightly, and he kisses them right into her mouth, licking her up. Her little tongue he has to reach for, drawn back into her mouth as she screams as loud as her lungs are capable of. But he does reach it, rubbing across it with his own tongue, mashing her hand between their chins until it finally drops away and he can lick comfortably into her wide open mouth. His shoulder flexes as he fucks his hand into her tight little vagina, her legs splayed wide and pelvis tilted up. She's squirting more, on and off bursts, and she's lost control of her bladder as well. He moans into her screaming mouth, his sound lost in hers. As she pours her juices across him, he gazes at her beautiful skin, streaked with sweat and dirt and oil. She pours out onto him, and he feels her ringing through his body. She pours on him, and he feels her cleanness finally washing his hands of all the blood.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate working title: My First Smut!
> 
> This was also my first kink meme fill, and full disclosure: I've never seen more than the first four episodes of this show. The fandom is just so full of my kinks that I've become immersed.
> 
> The only things I intended to write were the setting and the fingering, everything else just kinda... got away from me. So, uh, if you find it a bit odd or unexpected... great! So did I. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Prompt: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/109778.html?thread=41150674#t41150674


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